In the silence of an empty house, Nathaniel Sinclair staggered back to the safety of his study.
He dropped heavily into his desk chair; the movement jarred his broken ribs, and a series of racking, wheezing coughs rattled his frame. A mouthful of congealing blood splattered across the floor.
Sinclair groaned and reached for a clean sheet of paper. He needed more money, to see to the recapture and binding of the demon. His associates would need to be warned.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Sinclair’s servants knew not to speak unless spoken to.
“Send for a doctor,” Sinclair choked out; he didn’t bother to turn around.
No reply came, save for the clicking of claws on hardwood.
Slowly, Sinclair turned.
There was a wolf in his study.
Sinclair froze, frightened prey under the eyes of a predator. For a few long seconds, his logical mind declared that this was impossible. There were no wolves in Saintstown. There certainly couldn’t be a wolf in his house. It was a hallucination, or a dream.
Then, surging up from beneath education and rational thought, frightened animal instinct seized control.
He bolted for the door. The wolf lunged, and Sinclair dodged to the side.
His foot slipped in the puddle of blood.
Sinclair hit the floor hard, and the wolf’s jaws closed over his ankle.
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